


Of the Family

by NebulousMistress



Series: The Red Book [13]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cultural Misunderstandings, Episode: s04e15 Outcast, Gen, Mild Implied Incest, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulousMistress/pseuds/NebulousMistress
Summary: The public facing funeral is over. Food was eaten, Replicators were fought, empty words were said, the empty casket was buried.Empty? Wait. And why is the rest of the family showing up only now?
Series: The Red Book [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/702042
Comments: 29
Kudos: 69





	1. The Silicernius

**Author's Note:**

> Contains some mentions of canon-typical incest. Contains linguistics issues as Ronon has not been diligent with his English lessons. Also...
> 
> John Sheppard inherited it all from his father's family.

So these were horses.

They looked ridiculous. Their legs were too spindly, long and thin and ending in a single rounded hoof. Their teeth were impressively long but hidden behind fat lips, a long face, and a wide-nostriled nose. Their middles were round and fat, giving the entire animal the appearance of a round ball balanced on sticks.

But Ronon had to admit there was a certain grace to them. Such a fat gangly animal shouldn’t move with any speed yet these horses ran with impressive swiftness, darting and dodging and leaping in the air with every step. One ran before him now, its neck arched in a long curve, its mane and tail bouncing behind to add to the illusion of speed and movement as it ran along the dirt track.

This was a good trip to Earth. The death of John Sheppard’s father played the part of justification. Ronon had never known the man and Sheppard hadn’t seemed particularly mournful. After all, the man died of natural causes, a triumphant end to a long life. 

There was free food, skilled quarry, new weapons to play with, some measure of vengeance gained, and the day ended with a good fight. The simple pleasures made for the best missions.

Now with the mission over, the Replicators dead and dreaming, he and John Sheppard had returned to the dead father’s estate. The public funeral was ended, the casket buried, the hangers-on and the social leeches had all gone home. The private funeral would begin soon.

That was why John Sheppard sat astride the bare horse that ran snorting circles around the dirt track. At least, Ronon assumed that was why. Whether it was to run off some steam or prepare himself for some coming ordeal Ronon was unsure.

It wasn’t the ears, Ronon was sure of that. He knew it would be no problem the moment some old woman came up to them during the public wake and remarked on Sheppard’s appearance.

He looked so much like his father. The family would be proud.

*****

Ronon saw them as Sheppard led the snorting and sweaty horse back to its stable in the barn. He’d been to enough worlds where the blood of the Ancestors ran through the ruling class to recognize this for what it was. He made his way over to the group of women, Sheppard’s own cousins, and waited for them to notice him.

Even here on Earth the blood of the Ancestors was precious enough that ruling families tried to keep it safe from dilution.

One such woman, a young woman with the slight pointed ears and the long black hair of Sheppard’s family, noticed him. She held a glass of wine in her long fingers and her deep red dress seemed too tight. “Oh, hello,” she said, thrusting a hand in his direction. “You must be John’s ‘friend from work’.” She winked even as she enunciated her words a little too loudly to be polite.

The slow enunciation was something Ronon had grown used to. His spoken English was not the best. He understood it just fine, the Pegasus gates’ translation algorithms worked here as well as anywhere, but he had to speak English in order for these Earth people to understand him.

“My name is Rachael,” she said.

“Ronon.” He took her hand and clasped it in both of his, a gesture he found the women of this planet enjoyed immensely.

“Well aren’t you a precious thing,” Rachael said, blushing as she sipped her wine and allowed Ronon to hold her hand. “Where ever did John find you?”

“Work,” Ronon said. He gestured with his head as though it mattered. “Out there. They call me…” They called him many things. Runner, friend, team mate, human, Satedan, confidant, vigilumno. But there was one word Sheppard had made sure he used above all others. “...civilian contractor.” The word felt strange on his lips. Too many vowels in the first word, not enough rolled r’s in the second word. “You? What brings Rachael here?”

“Why the funeral, of course,” she said. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. You are coming to the ceremony tonight?”

“The... silicernius?” Ronon asked. The funeral was over, the casket buried, and he hadn’t remembered if the Earthers had a word for a Remembrance Feast. The Ancient word for it was all he could think of.

Rachael giggled and the other women turned with interest to their conversation. It may have had something to do with Sheppard and his horse fading from sight. 

“Silicernius, it’s a...” Ronon grasped at his English lessons. They were not overly helpful. “A feast of remembering. John’s elder-father lived a… long life.”

Rachael pouted. “Not as long as you’d think,” she said. “Now John’s great grandmother, she lived for **ever** . Too mean to die. I think she was, what was it, a hundred and eight when she finally killed herself?”

“Overdosed on morphine.” One of the other women nodded sagely as Ronon looked on in awe. He hadn’t known a human being could live that long. But then these weren’t humans, were they. All three women had the same slightly pointed ears of the ATA active-yet-dormant. 

Ronon allowed the three women to fall back into an argument among themselves, an old argument over whether said great grandmother’s death counted as a suicide or not, until Sheppard came out of the stable. Ronon left the women to their conversation and intercepted Sheppard before the man could flee again.

“Not now, Ronon,” Sheppard warned.

“No’loquisto,” Ronon said, dropping all pretense of speaking English. The Pegasus Trade language was easier to remember and he knew Sheppard could speak it almost as well as he did.  _ We need to talk. _

Sheppard fell for it, slipping into Pegasus Trade as well. “Non no’loquisto,” Sheppard snapped. “Et ir’ecuso ad silicernius. Nec t’ultima.”  _ No we don’t need to talk. I’m not going to the second funeral and that’s final. And neither are you. _

“Quidni?” Ronon asked. “Sunt forni’cognat pos’?”  _ Why not? Too many of your cousins lusting after you? _

Sheppard shot a glance at the trio of women who watched the exchange without understanding a word that was said. He suppressed a look of horror at the unabashed interest in their eyes.

“Vidi domo’ius,” Ronon said. “Sangui Lantea servand insitus. Cetera quoq’erad ut prope nupitas. Pueri libertat’ neglecta.”  _ I saw it all over Pegasus. The blood of the Ancestors kept strong by keeping it close. Other traits bred out by keeping a close eye on pairings. The rights of the child ignored. _

Sheppard growled and got dangerously close to Ronon, breath hot as he snarled. Ronon didn’t react, merely stared Sheppard down until he sighed and stepped back.

“Quid’ic?” Ronon asked. “No’sade vacu’arca sepelite. No’comedit. No’relinquent. No’redii. No’comedit iter. No’bibi. Nomini’ nuncupatio dicatur. Qui’pati?”  _ Why are we here? We watched the empty casket disposed of in the ground. We ate the food. We left early. We came back. We ate more of the food. We drank. Empty words were said. What’s left? _

“Lectio per domu’testam,” Sheppard muttered. “Quod hic’eo. Et’iuvenes. Et…”  _ The reading of the private will. I have to be here for that. And the pyre. And... _

“Vis fuger,” Ronon said. _You don’t want to be here._ He realized something. “Nomini’ nuncupatio dicatur. Fami’loquia op’esse dix. Solem’artem.”  _ The empty words were said. The family’s chosen words need to be said. A religious service. _

“Quod solem’artemiam,” Sheppard said dismissively.  _ They already had a religious service. _

They both knew that wasn’t true. Yes, there had been a vaguely Christian service that said nothing and meant nothing as the empty coffin sat at the gravesite. But it wasn’t…

It wasn’t what was planned for that night. And Ronon knew it. Ronon could always read a room and the Sheppard estate had swelled with dozens of people in finery with the same intense eyes and the same pointed ears. They spoke freely in front of him once they thought he couldn’t understand them. The service was tonight and the family was amazed John had brought someone special. Not even Nancy had been privy to these services. The fact that Ronon was a man meant little to the Sheppard family, in fact it made the cousins even bolder.

Sheppard shifted back to English. “Fine,” he snapped. “Then you’ll see. You’ll see exactly why I never wanted this!” He stormed off toward the main house of the estate.

Ronon watched as he left but didn’t follow. Instead he leaned against the barn and pondered.

*****

The Sheppard estate was a sprawling complex of wide lawns, regal buildings, and untamed forest. The great main building held dozens of bedrooms, most of them claimed at this point by Sheppard cousins with black hair and intense eyes and pointed ears hidden under their hair. The women invariably wore their hair long, done up in complex braids or flowing freely in the wind, always hiding their ears. The men wore their hair just long enough to cover the tips of their ears. As the day progressed and the wine flowed those ears slowly began to show themselves.

Ronon could pick out who was related by blood and who had married into the family solely by those ears. Why Sheppard had ever resisted the Pegasus Charade and the idea of elves was beyond him; Sheppard himself belonged to an entire family of elves.

Ronon found himself plied with food and wine as distinctly human servants carried loaded trays though the elven throng. He found himself shouted at by too many people who decided his deficient skill with spoken English meant he couldn’t understand them. He found himself shunned from some conversations and welcomed into others on the basis of familial bias.

He found Sheppard lurking near the cloak room in his dress uniform.

“Ibi essetis?” Ronon asked, gesturing to the party around them.  _ Shouldn’t you be out there? _

“Quia’non habent,” Sheppard said. “Non es’tenebris.”  _ Don’t have to be. It’s not dark yet. _

“Qui’fit accidi’tenebris?”  _ What happens when it’s dark? _

Ronon growled as he found himself accosted by yet another cousin, this one slurring as he loudly demanded to know what language that was. Ronon gave the proper name for the language, Mercatulingua, and refused to translate it. When he extracted himself from that conversation Sheppard was gone again.

A pair of hands found Ronon and led him away from the floor. Ronon shrugged and followed the human in his crisp white suit up to the second floor and the bedroom he and Sheppard had been assigned.

“You need to get dressed for tonight.”

“Why?” Ronon asked.

“Because Master David demands it. Something about Master John refusing to look civilized.”

Ronon looked this man up and down. He wore the same white suit with white gloves as the kitchen staff. “Your name?” he asked.

“Richard.”

Ronon nodded. “Ronon. I am…” He paused to put together the words into a sentence that made sense. “I know not the…” He growled. “Tonight.”

Richard listened as he pulled outfits from a nearby closet. “Consider yourself lucky,” he said. “Very few people outside the family have ever seen such an event. Master John must have revealed a great deal about you, otherwise I can’t imagine you’d be allowed to attend.”

Ronon stayed quiet. He could see this human Richard did not often get the chance to speak freely. He might prove to be an excellent source of information.

“Normally it’s several years of marriage before someone from outside the family is allowed to attend such an event. Personally I suspect it’s Master David’s doing. He’s trying to bring Master John back into the family proper.”

“We have duty… no’terr,” Ronon said. “Not here. Not in his family.”

Richard pulled something green and flowing from the closet before sizing Ronon up. He scowled and put it back before pulling out something much larger and brown. “I suspect the Masters will find some way around your duties elsewhere,” he said. He tossed Ronon the outfit. “Here, try this on.”

Ronon pulled off the suit the SGC had insisted he wear. However, just because he wore Earth clothing didn’t mean he agreed with Earth’s concept of wandering around unarmed. He left the knives strapped to his calves and the one knife strapped to his left forearm. He picked up the brown outfit then noticed Richard staring at the knives strapped to him.

“Not allowed?” Ronon asked, holding out his arm.

Richard took the offered arm and pulled the knife slowly from its sheath. Ronon watched as he handled the blade with some skill before giving it back. “They’re normally allowed for family only,” Richard said. “But since nobody else has taken them from you yet I suppose you’re allowed.”

Ronon smirked and pulled the brown over his head. Leather and silk felt more real than the strange confining Earth suit he’d been made to wear. The sleeves parted at the elbows, making hiding the forearm blade impossible. Instead the fabric seemed to accentuate it. Leather hugged his torso in a comfortingly familiar fashion. The pants were soft, accentuating his lines, making him feel taller.

“That’ll do,” Richard said. He tugged on the arm sheath, seating the knife so as to emphasize it. “Now if you don’t mind, I need to parade you around a bit so Master John gets the message and puts on some proper clothes.”

“Fair,” Ronon said. He left the bedroom and descended the steps back into the main hall. He was not the only one so dressed. The Sheppard family seemed to be cycling in and out, disappearing from the main hall in their normal Earth clothes and returning to it in fine silks and leather corsets of red, green, blue, silver. Chains of silver and gold adorned necks and wrists, bright gems dangled from hands and ears and long braided hair.

Ronon found Sheppard in a corner with an entire bottle of wine. He drank from it directly and glared exhausted murder when he saw Ronon. “Can you not?” Sheppard demanded.

“Vocabitur Inperator,” Ronon said, dropping his pretense of English.  _ They call you Master. _

“Scio.”  _ I know. _

“Quare?”  _ Why? _

Sheppard didn’t answer, instead taking a long swig of wine.

“Richard dix autem necessar’ornatus,” Ronon said. “Proprii ornatus.”  _ Richard said you need to get dressed. Proper clothes. _

“Richard poss’ire se pedicabo,” Sheppard said. _Richard can go fuck himself then._ He took another swig of wine then shouted to the room. “No’curamus qui’ Dave dix, non noct’ du’silicernius!”  _ I don’t care what Dave said, I’m not leading the ritual tonight! _

Ronon watched the room all look on in annoyance. He knew what they’d all heard. The words meant little to the family, only the tone. Anger. Defiance. Disruption. The party grew ominously quiet as conversations ebbed, as elven ears listened.

“Quid uos?” Ronon asked. “Nunquam’es.”  _ Why would you lead? You’re never here. _

Sheppard pretended not to hear.

“Cur ducis?” Ronon said, trying a different tactic. “Nunquam’es. Quid unde perfectu’servare queat. Pater tu’habuisse consilio negle’sunt. Et reditu non est verum. Relegabretu e’ dedi t’ego. Nobi. Vo’nunquam gratias egerun pri’mor’es.”  _ Why not lead, then? You’re never here. You have no reason to keep it perfect. Your father had a plan for your life that you ignored. Ignoring him gave you access to depths of reality you’d never dreamed of. He pushed you away and pushed you to me. To us. You never had the chance to thank him for that. _

Sheppard stood still but he listened.

“Est enim forte vo’gratias,” Ronon said. “Tu fami’gratias. Illi relegabretu t’esse potes. Sine timore, sine latebras. Quid enim pote’sse t’quod.”  _ This is your chance to thank him. To thank all your family. They pushed you so far away you can be yourself now. Without fear, without hiding. You can be what you were meant to be. _

“We carry in us a past that cannot be forgotten,” Sheppard whispered, reverting back to English. “We carry in us a future which cannot be denied. We are the ones who stayed behind when the Elders sailed to the west. We are the Singers of this world and of the next. When the time comes our voices will shake the stars.”

Ronon listened to the whispered words. He felt a chill flood over him, the realization that those words made sense not because of the Gate’s translations but because of a Genii translation he’d read once before.

“Fine,” Sheppard said as dull defeat crept into his face. “I’ll do it. Tell Dave I’ll lead tonight.” He left Ronon standing there surrounded by curious family, drunken elves all of them, and all of them plying him with wine, with compliments, with gratitude for saving the night’s pyre.

Ronon allowed it. He felt he had no other choice. Not with what Sheppard had just admitted.

*****

The night was dark, the stars faint in the light-polluted sky. A fat half moon and a single bright point of light shone near the horizon by the time the party moved outside.

Ronon wore a heavy green velvet cloak, similar in design to the cloaks worn by those who married into the family. He’d been given rapid instructions by a white-suited human servant before the servant sighed and pointed to a woman. “Follow her lead,” he said before moving on to the children.

So Ronon followed her. “Melissa Sheppard,” she said, introducing herself.

“Ronon,” Ronon said.

“So you’re with Tonya, then?” Melissa asked. “Or Winnie? Penelope?”

“John.”

“Ah…”

Ronon cocked his head as he watched Melissa’s expression go through several phases, not the least were shock, incredulity, imaginative lust, vague disgust, then a quietly schooled flatness. It was a series of expressions he’d encountered often here on Earth, usually after someone asked who he was here with. 

“Welcome to the family, I guess?” Melissa said. Her smile seemed forced as she extended a hand.

Ronon took her hand in both of his and held it for a moment before letting go. “The family is large,” he said, he meant it as a vague compliment.

“Not as large as it used to be,” Melissa said. “I’ve heard the stories. I suppose it’ll get smaller now that John is, well, um…”

“I would raise his children,” Ronon said. “He has… not asked.”

“Oh?” Melissa looked relieved to hear it. “Oh! Oh you’re a gracious one, aren’t you. I suppose all isn’t lost for John then. You’re certainly big and… strong enough to handle it.” She looked him up and down, eyes roaming over where the leather and silk accentuated his build.

Ronon felt the urge to preen. He allowed himself a smile of pride. He liked to think he was capable of raising many children, especially once they were old enough to run. He hoped he got the chance to help raise Benito when that boy was old enough to choose.

The arrival of someone in a blue cloak caused Melissa to step back and look demure. The other women all took on the same strange submissive stance when faced with this man in blue. He pulled back the hood of his cloak.

“Dave,” Ronon greeted.

Dave Sheppard stood with his hair combed back to show the point of his ears. His pale eyes were the color of an unpowered Atlantean crystal. His cheeks were red with too much wine and he looked immensely relieved. “He agreed to do it,” Dave said, wrapping both hands around Ronon’s shoulders before pulling the man into a hug. “I have no idea what you said and to be honest nobody knows what you said but you did it. You did it!”

“I talked to him,” Ronon said, as though that was all he’d done.

“I haven’t been able to get through to him in all the time he’s been back,” Dave said, voice fast like all the words were falling out of him before he thought enough to stop himself. “And you’re not like us, not at all! What did you say to him! I need to know so I can convince him next time and the next and… Have you  **seen** him? He looks so… Father would have been proud to see him like this. Anything you need, money, power, anything just to make sure he does this again.”

Ronon extracted himself from Dave’s grip. “I cannot,” he said.

Dave’s face fell.

“Too much… We have much to do outside,” Ronon said. “We…” He growled and couldn’t help the lapse as he swore. “Cur porta j’operis. S’essest facili dicere--”

“What language is that?” Dave asked. He seemed almost entranced. “It’s beautiful. Almost… is it a Romantic language? Where did John find you?”

“Outside,” Ronon said. It was the easiest way to describe the Pegasus galaxy in a single dismissive word of English.

“I don’t know,” Dave said, running a finger down Ronon’s chest. “I’ve been all over this world. I’ve heard languages  **like** yours but never exactly yours.”

Ronon inclined his head, a simple nod of acknowledgement.

“You  **will** let me hear you speak like that again.”

The words felt like a command. Ronon recognized it from the many commands Sheppard would give to someone who resisted and then caved. He had that same odd compulsion to follow Dave’s given command. “Eribi?” he asked, rolling the ‘r’ properly.  _ Will I, then?  _ He meant it as a challenge to Dave’s power and yet he found himself doing exactly as he was told. This fact unnerved him.

Dave purred with glee. “I can  **feel** you resisting and, gods, you’re strong. I want to keep you.”

Ronon growled. “Nec’ul habet’vobis.”  _ I’m owned by no man, especially you. _

“Oh but I can’t keep you,” Dave allowed. “You’re John’s and I shouldn’t. Regardless, you  **must** come back. Make John bring you again next time. Drag him back here if you have to!”

Dave left, his blue cloak swirling as he pulled the hood over his ears and his tipsy glee.

Ronon wasn’t sure what had just happened. He needed to talk to the Genii again, see if he could get a full copy of the Red Book. He knew Sheppard was charming, persuasive, but to see it flaunted like that, to be on the receiving end was… unnerving.

*****

Blue and green cloaks filled the clearing. The forest grew thick and wild around them, the clearing empty and bereft. A great unlit pyre stood in the middle, felled trees cradling the unembalmed body of Patrick Sheppard.

The elves in their blue cloaks held candles, long tapers with tiny flames that sparkled like stars. At the base of the pyre one elf stood before the rest, commanding their attention. He wore a silver cloak lined with black threads, the silks he wore were silver as well. He shone like the moon above, like the Star of Earendil that sailed near that moon.

Ronon stood in the back with the other humans in their green cloaks. He carried no candle, none of the humans who’d married into this family were allotted a candle. They weren’t even part of the ritual, only observers.

That… suited Ronon just fine.

He’d begun the night slightly amused and more than a little confused. Sheppard had hidden this. Sheppard had pretended this didn’t exist. He’d fought against allowing the Genii to keep the Red Book. He’d insisted the Red Book was false, a fantastical story created by a man who broke in the trenches of a war and created a fantasy to cope. And yet…

Yet Sheppard had been hiding this. Dave the elder brother, the new patriarch of the Sheppard clan, deferred to his younger brother John as John led his family of elves in a ritual to send their father’s soul and ashes into the west. Sheppard had hidden much if Dave’s disturbing moment of control over Ronon was any indication.

Elves lowered their tapers, reaching out with their flames to light the pyre. John Sheppard in his silver cloak stepped back to allow the flames to catch. The flames would burn away his father’s earthly prison, would send his father’s soul to an afterlife where he would wait with those Ancestors who came before him. He would wait and when the world ended they would all become gods. They would Sing the world into being again. A Second Music of creation.

Ronon watched as the wind shifted. It carried the smoke of the pyre toward the west and the setting moon.

He decidedly didn’t watch as the other humans around him sighed in relief at this particular event. He didn’t want to think about it. Not at all.


	2. The Domu’testam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV shift to Sheppard
> 
> Angst... aaaaangst...

Sheppard had a pounding headache. This had been a very long trip. Replicators, his father’s public funeral, his father’s  **real** funeral, the whole party afterward…

Sheppard was never drinking sweet wine again. Certainly not the kind his cousins kept handing him. He wasn’t entirely sure what had happened last night and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. He didn’t like waking up without pants when his last memory involved wearing them.

Regardless, most of the family were leaving today. A seemingly endless parade of handshakes and kissed cheeks and empty promises filled the morning, all thankfully ending with Dave holding John up as they waved at the receding line of cars.

Finally it was over.

It was all over.

Except the heirlooms. The private artifacts. The ‘private will’ as Dave called it.

“Malnare,” Sheppard swore as he remembered. The whole reason why he had to come back. He needed to be present for the reading of the private will.

“You  **must** teach me this language of yours,” Dave said. “Ronon won’t tell me what it is either. I can tell it’s Romantic in origin but it doesn’t quite fit any of the Latin languages I’ve heard before.”

“Not likely,” Sheppard said as Dave dragged him back indoors. The headache had thankfully begun to recede the same as that endless line of cars.

“I  **will** find out,” Dave said ominously.

Sheppard hummed in answer as he dropped onto a chair in the sitting room. It was too early for more brandy but too late for breakfast. It was a good time for a second breakfast and Sheppard knew in that moment that McKay had rubbed off on him.

“We open the vault tonight,” Dave said. “Everything will be cleaned up by then and we can bring the lawyers back. Although I’m sure we won’t need that. It’s just Father’s personal collection left.”

Sheppard rubbed a hand over his eyes. He honestly didn’t care what happened to the heirlooms. He couldn’t take anything to Pegasus and if he had his way he’d never be back here to enjoy anything he left on Earth. Therefore the whole lot of it all could go to Dave. “I don’t need any of it,” Sheppard said.

“After last night?” Dave scoffed. “Of course you do.”

“No, I mean…” Sheppard sighed. “I’m not in a position where I could  **keep** anything. Especially nothing of Dad’s.”

Dave looked skeptical.

“No books, no heirlooms, no artifacts, nothing,” Sheppard insisted.

“Not even the weapons?” Dave asked.

Sheppard groaned and prepared to repeat his point. He could feel it threatening to turn into a tirade.

“I’ll leave you to think on it,” Dave said, leaving the sitting room.

Sheppard glared after his brother as the man refused to listen to reason. He saw no need for any of the family’s vaunted artifacts when he was just going to leave everything in Dave’s care anyway. Let him carry on the family legacies.

*****

Sheppard considered finding Ronon and leaving. If he left before the family artifacts were distributed then Dave could claim he’d forfeited his ancestral claims and honor would be satisfied. Except after last night Sheppard knew Dave wouldn’t let a little thing like ‘leaving early’ get in the way.

Fuck.

Sheppard was never coming back to Earth after this. Not for family, not for the SGC, not even if the alternative was exile again. The Scriniarii would be willing to take him in. Or the Manarians. Or even the Genii. Heck, the Genii would be thrilled to have him.

He needed to get out of this house, off the planet and into the sky. But flight wasn’t an option right now. Instead he decided on the next best thing. There was no way Ronon was comfortable with the previous night’s events, he would be in the gym working off some of his frustration. The idea of Ronon and himself beating each other with sticks felt like a really good one at the moment.

He found the gym occupied. The sounds of sticks hitting against sticks betrayed its occupants. Sheppard sighed and tried not to glare as he realized. Of course.

Dave wielded a long wood spear. Of course he’d trained to wield the ancestral spear, their father would have had nothing else. Ronon fought him with one of the long sword-sticks, moving slowly and easily like he used to with McKay. 

Sheppard was tired of it all. Tired of Dave and his insistences. Tired of hiding everything. Tired of fighting the Charade even as it felt just so, so  **right** . He growled in warning before plucking two sticks the size of bantos rods from the wall and charging at Ronon.

Ronon tossed Dave’s spear away with ease and raised his own stick to defend. Sheppard fought like a man overcome with anger, his strikes tempered with the deadly precision of the ATA-active. Ronon rolled out of the reach of Sheppard’s onslaught to the wall, picking up a second stick to act as a secondary weapon.

They fought in silence, the only sounds the rapid tap-tap-tap-crack-tap of sticks hitting each other at high speed. Sheppard pressed his attack only to be turned around to retreat by Ronon’s superior strength. Then Sheppard would press again. It was an old game of theirs, Ronon toying with him while Sheppard tried to gain an objective. This time there was no handkerchief stuffed down Ronon’s pants, no flag tied to his waist, no prize hiding in his pocket. Instead Ronon merely toyed with him while Sheppard floundered without an endgame.

However, Ronon had one.

Ronon took a strike from both rods to his own stick, tossed them aside, dropped his offhand weapon, and grabbed Sheppard by the arm. He swung around, dropping his main weapon to grab Sheppard’s other arm and then lifted him into the air.

“Hey!” Sheppard shouted. “Dimiette!”  _ Unhand me! _

Ronon grinned then let Sheppard down. He didn’t let go, instead imprisoning Sheppard in his arms even as Sheppard struggled and growled.

Ronon pressed his face to Sheppard’s pointed ear. “Amante’sumus cred’ua,” he said, his voice low.  _ Your family thinks we’re lovers. _

“Dixi non amante’sumus,” Sheppard growled. “Qui’lli?”  _ I told them we’re not! Why would they? _

“Qu’circa.”  _ That’s why. _

Sheppard swung one leg back and then used physics and the leverage to yank himself forward, flipping forward onto his back. As he hoped, Ronon didn’t let go, instead he submitted to the flip to land on his back with Sheppard on top of him. Unfortunately, even with the wind knocked out of him, Ronon wrapped both arms and legs around Sheppard to keep him from declaring victory.

“Ind’est quod,” Sheppard lamented.  _ This is why, isn’t it. _

Ronon snorted.

Sheppard gave up fighting and instead lay there on top of Ronon. The embarrassment was made worse by the distinct sound of Dave laughing at him.

“I’m not sure who won,” Dave said, leering. “But maybe decide that later.”

Sheppard groaned. 

“Fu’eri cum coni’gibious, Sheppard,” Ronon said, his voice hot against Sheppard’s pointed ear. “Nunquam te’a Nancy qu’que. Ut’aliis videtur, quod no’credis?”  _ I spent last night with the wives, Sheppard. Your Nancy never had that. What did you  _ _think_ _ people would assume? _

“I didn’t think that far ahead,” Sheppard growled, not caring that Dave could hear him like this. “Let me up, Ronon.”

“Fac’em.”  _ Make me. _

Sheppard squirmed, wiggling out of Ronon’s grip even as the larger man laughed. He pulled away, stepping back as he straightened his clothes. Ronon laid on the mat before rolling upward and jumping to his feet.

“If you’re both finished,” Dave said. The rest of that sentence dangled unspoken.

Sheppard scowled but didn’t fight back as Ronon put a hand on his shoulder. 

“At least let me show you what Father left for us,” Dave said.

Sheppard sighed. If this is what it took to leave everything behind then he supposed he would have to agree. “Fine,” he allowed.

Dave nodded and gestured for both men to follow him. Ronon followed with Sheppard left to bring up the rear.

Sheppard knew where they were going. The basement of the estate had the usual storage, the secret entertainment room where his father had entertained human guests who needed to feel important. The wine cellar beyond that, racks upon racks of bottles that cycled through far too fast to ever grow dusty. A casual observer would find nothing strange but a careful eye might notice these vintages were nothing special, not overly expensive, and almost all of them cloyingly sweet; this cellar stored wine that was meant to be drunk instead of stored. The large vault door past the wine racks locked with an electronic keypad.

Dave punched in the code and the vault opened. Chill dry air wafted from beyond, the careful climate control an ominous hint to what lay beyond.

Sheppard gave a resigned sigh and stepped into his father’s collection.

It always felt like walking into a museum exhibit. The weaponry on display didn’t help matters. Glass cases lined the walls filled with armor and weapons from ages past. Some were passed down through generations, others were acquired from private collections, still others had been stolen from the hoards of kingdoms no longer remembered.

A shield lacquered black to protect the bronze beneath from decay, the white tree with its shining mithril-plated stars.

The delicate orichalcum breastplate with the thigh guards, overlapping plates detailed with delicate filigree of leaves and tiny athelas flowers.

The great ancestral spear. At least, that’s what his father always believed. Sheppard never believed the ebony hafted spear could be the real ancestral spear Aeglos. The inscription was wrong. This must be a copy, a replica, surely Gil-Galad hadn't been the only king to wield a spear like this. Dr. Kusanagi wielded a spear much like this one, unadorned yet identical down to the curve of the blade. 

Smaller weapons, daggers and long knives. A curved sword with a curved tang, the grip long rotted away. Helms with the horsehair missing.

The jewelry. Shining gems twisted into silver fastenings long since turned black with patina. So much black jewelry, their silver no longer gleaming under the ravages of time. Gems that gleamed as Sheppard and Dave grew close, a gleam that came from within almost like the crystals on Atlantis.

“If nothing else, Father would want you to have these,” Dave said, pointing to a matched pair of long knives. "They suit your fighting style. Please accept them." The ivory hilts curved delicately to the butts of the knives, their grip comfortable in the hands. The long thin blades looked ancient but well cared for, not a single spot of rust marring their shine. Ivory sheathes matched the hilts with distinct bands where long-ago rotted leather straps might have strapped them to an elven quiver

Sheppard wanted to say no. He opened his mouth to do so.

“S’autem no’sumas,” Ronon threatened.  _ If you don’t take them I will. _

Sheppard glared. “All right,” he allowed. “I’ll take them.”

“T’uti facile,” Ronon purred.  _ You’ll use them well. _

Dave opened the case. The white knives slid easily into their ivory sheathes. Once so sheathed they looked like nothing more than a pair of ivory bantos rods. “You’ll use them well,” he said with a distinct smile.

Sheppard took the knives. Then Dave’s exact words hit him and he glanced at Ronon then back to Dave.

“Father would have wanted to see you like this,” Dave said, his voice echoing in the silent vault. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

“Dave, I--”

“Shh.” Dave shushed Sheppard, his fingers pressed against Sheppard’s lips. It shocked Sheppard that Dave could move so fast. Normally only those who’d been exposed to Atlantis had such talents. “You don’t have to believe me,” he whispered. “We’ve all felt it the past few years. Something’s happening, I can feel it. It’s changing you too.”

“Dave, there’s more to it than that,” Sheppard protested.

Dave smiled. It was a smile that betrayed knowledge of something more than he’d said. “I don’t believe you’ve seen this before,” he offered. “Let me show you.”

Sheppard’s blood ran cold. “What is it?” he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

Dave’s smile turned into a grin. “The Red Book.”

Ronon looked at Sheppard with interest.

“No’hoc rubeulibri,” Sheppard snapped.  _ Not that Red Book. _

“I  **will** learn that language,” Dave warned as he turned to a case. This one held no weapons, only a single book on a pedestal. That book had never been opened as far as Sheppard knew. It hadn’t even been visible, a black silk cloth protecting it from prying eyes and stray photons. Dave slipped on a pair of soft white gloves and opened the case. He pulled the silk away to reveal a book bound in lacquered red leather.

Sheppard had a terrible feeling as he saw the cover of that book. He recognized the symbols.

The fat curving letters spelled out one terrible word in Quenya.

_ Origin _

Sheppard slowly shook his head, not believing what he saw. Earth had just fought this off, how was this here? This book looked ancient, centuries old! The pages were parchment, the words inside hand-copied in curling Quenya script, in High-Elven, in in in...

...in the archaic formal Ancient he’d seen only once. In a time dilation field surrounded by half-ascended Ancients who cowered from their own mortality. A sight he'd tried so hard to forget.

“The Tolkien estate finally caved to my demands,” Dave said as he reverently stroked the pages with his fine white gloves. “They had the same change of heart that unlocked so much in us. Master Tolkien was a linguist and so helpfully thorough in his translations of his own Red Book. I found Father’s old notes, the books of translations made over the past few centuries. I had the opportunity to compare the translations. There’s so much more here than ever made it into Tolkien’s books, John. I know the secrets this book kept. I know what the Valar are.”

“Ancestors,” Ronon said.

“Yes! John, we are the children of gods! That’s what it means to be elven. That’s why we’ll both Sing the Second Music. That’s why you and you alone could send Father to the West. You gave him that and now he’ll Sing forever.”

Sheppard took a step back, the white knives still in his hands. His whole life he’d been… and…

The SGC had been clear. Origin was a dangerous cult that turned its worshippers into mindless praying machines that chanted 12 hours a day to give their ascended masters power. But…

But if he’d followed it his whole life then…

He wasn’t a cultist. Maybe those cultists out there had twisted Origin for their own political ends, it wouldn’t be the first time a religion had been twisted for the benefit of mortals in power. Maybe the Origin out there wasn’t the same as what he grew up with. Maybe there’d been a schism somewhere along the line like the 16th century Reformation.

Maybe his father’s disappointment at all those years he’d failed choir made so much more sense.

“Est rubeulibri,” Sheppard whispered, the admission weighing on his chest.  _ It is that Red Book. _

Ronon stepped closer even as Sheppard backed away. 

“Verum’est,” Sheppard lamented. A terrible sorrow welled up in him and he had no idea why. “Actum verum’est.”  _ It’s true. It’s all true. _

“I’ve heard about rubeulibri,” Ronon said. “The Red Book. There are others. More copies.”

“I know,” Dave said, grinning widely. “There are full copies in English upstairs. New translations. Complete translations.”

The look Sheppard gave him was utter shock.

“Let me show you.”

*****

Sheppard found himself upstairs staring at a paperback copy of Origin, volumes 1 through 5. The book consisted of twelve volumes, none of them small. Of course Dave had full copies, he had several paperback sets and one hardbound set, and he prattled on about how the Tolkien estate contacted him to determine if he’d been behind their publishing. 

Of course Dave wasn’t. Neither was Harvard nor Munich nor the Vatican nor any number of private collectors. This wasn’t the work of anyone from Earth, these came from Outside.

Origin made it to Earth. Earth wasn’t safe from the religious texts now found in public libraries and bookshops and the internet. Anyone could pick up a copy of Origin now and start believing.

Earth would fall. Earth would…

Wait.

The Ori were dead. The Songs of Origin wouldn’t feed anyone. Daniel Jackson had built the device and sent it through the Ori gate to destroy them all. Every ascended being in that galaxy was…

The Valar were…

...dead.

Sheppard got to his feet and stormed out of the sitting room. Let Ronon hold the white knives. Let Dave believe this was all a sign of some great Becoming. Let Ronon gloat that everything the Genii had said was  **true** .

Sheppard threw himself outside and screamed his grief at the sky.

Everything he thought he knew meant nothing. And now everything that he could have been had died.

And he’d helped kill it.

He screamed until he had no more screams left.

He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him. He wasn’t aware of the bite of flagstones under his knees or the stifle of late afternoon humidity or the beating shine of the sun. He didn’t notice as Dave stood before him until he knelt down next to him.

“Please don’t ask, Dave,” Sheppard pleaded, his voice torn and rasping. “I can’t tell you. I can’t say anything. Please don’t ask.”

“I won’t then,” Dave said. 

“I can’t even take the books with me,” Sheppard whispered. “Don’t ask why. **Do not** ask why.”

“They’re religious books,” Dave said forcefully. “You’re allowed to have religious books. Even in the military, John, you’re allowed that!”

“Not those books.”

“Ronon tells me he'll make sure you take the knives,” Dave spat. “Can you at least do that? If not for me, for him?”

Sheppard nodded.

“Use them well.” Dave got to his feet. “Whatever you choose to believe, I know what I’ve seen. It’s a turning of the Ages. The Fourth Age is finally in its downfall. The Age of Men is nearing its end. The Valar  **will** Sing the Second Music and you  **will** join us when they do.”

Sheppard winced.

“Until then, maybe it’s time the ancestral weapons were seen again. I can’t carry a spear in the boardroom but I watched you with the dual blades. At least keep them close even if you never get the chance to carry them. Make sure the Valar remember you even if you can’t Sing the rites.”

Sheppard looked down at his hands. The Age of Men had nearly ended, that was true. If books of Origin made it to Earth then the SGC must know just how close they’d come to losing everything. But the Valar were destroyed. Humanity was saved and now the Age of Men would continue.

Forever.

This was what Sheppard had worked for his whole time in the Stargate Program. This was what he **wanted**. Why did it hurt so much?

He looked up at the afternoon sky. Up there was home. Once there he'd never return to this wretched place. Then maybe he could forget.


End file.
